Duet
by Atsuyuri-sama
Summary: Ivan and Jet connect with one another early on, and never really come apart.


**Title: Duet**

 **Summary:** Ivan and Jet connect with one another early on, and never really come apart.

 **Rating:** K+ (10+)

 **Warnings:** Brief mention of mental break, canon-typical unwilling body-modification, minor 2001-ending spoilers, implied near-death and heavy injury

 **A/N 05-11-2018:** I found this gathering dust in my writing folder. I don't even remember writing it. The last time I binge-wrote for C009 was mid-2014, so… there's no telling how old this is. I fiddled a bit with some spelling and grammar errors, but otherwise let it be. I like this one _far more_ than _Meditation_. Between this fic and _Meditation_ , perhaps this will be what I need to come out of my writing slump!

 **-Duet-**

Jet remembered those first few months after being caught and changed by Black Ghost; they'd been fraught with danger and stress. He'd been stripped of his identity – his name, his body, his independence – and they were doing everything they could to strip him of his spirit, too. Needless to say, it hadn't been fun.

Stranded and frantic, out in the 'training grounds' that the scientists in charge of his development had dominion over, had been the first time Ivan had contacted him. At that point, hearing a voice in his head was just the cherry on top. He'd screamed and railed at the world in general – _Why take his sanity in pieces? Why not just take it all at once, so he wouldn_ _'t be_ _ **aware**_ _that he was trapped somewhere against his will; why did Fate have to present him with_ _ **logical voices**_ _instead of blissfully deranged naivety?! –_ up until the drones caught wind of his tantrum and chased him down.

He'd gotten away again, only just, and decided to confine his freak outs after that to silence and mental anguish. It wasn't safe right now to be brash and loud and so furious he lost track of the world around him. Ivan contacted him again, a week later, the younger one's curiosity enough to overcome the shock and (mental and emotional) violence of his first contact with anyone new. Jet had been just tired enough to simply listen to the voice, and that meant – finally – he'd been introduced to the second cyborg crafted by a madman and his lackeys, designation '001'.

A brief conversation between the two had offered Jet more information in mere minutes than he'd been able to access in months. It had been nice for a moment, to understand why they'd gone from calling him 'Subject D6', to a temporary '001', to suddenly and definitively, '002'. Having your identity replaced unwillingly not once, but thrice, was hell on the psyche. If he couldn't convince them he was a _person_ with a _name_ and a _life_ , at least he finally knew some of _something_ about what was happening around him.

Lonely, hunted, and depressed, Jet continued to be at the mercy of his captors. But now there was someone along for the ride. Ivan's contact with him was sporadic at first; the boy was careful and tentative. It took some prodding for Jet to learn that, aside from Jet himself, the only contact Ivan had with anyone since being made into a psychic cyborg were the scientists. It explained both Ivan's tendency to retreat – when Jet bad-mouthed the only others he knew, Ivan didn't know what to do – and his social awkwardness – he was actually and _honestly_ the first 'outsider' to talk to Ivan, because Ivan was only _eight months old._

Jet's shock at this information was enough to spark Ivan's thirst for knowledge: this was the first time he'd heard anything opposing the plans of Black Ghost, and it was new. Suddenly, Ivan was contacting Jet all the time…. Practically the only time Jet's head was silent was when he was either sleeping, or fighting for his life. Ivan – with permission – dug around in his surface memories when Jet was too busy to hold a conversation, seeing the outside world through Jet's eyes, or he pelted Jet with questions, to inspect Jet's non-Black Ghost opinion about the world in a more conventional manner.

The first time Ivan fell asleep – the first time since he'd started pestering Jet that he'd left the redhead to his own devices for more than twelve hours – Jet panicked. As the days went by with no word from his new friend, Jet feared the worst. He imagined scenarios where the scientists got sick of the child's search for knowledge, and took him apart. He imagined Ivan's new enhancements breaking – like his own acceleration and jets did, far too frequently (and so very painfully, more often than not) – but because the technology was in his _brain_ , it would _kill_ Ivan. He imagined that, somehow, he'd done something wrong, and offended or hurt the child, or gotten him in trouble with the scientists. He imagined the scientists taking Ivan and dropping the defenseless infant-body on its own in some training ground like this one, too far away for Jet to make contact with.

Honestly, Jet was frantic.

By the time Ivan contacted him two weeks later, Jet was just about ready to throw himself on a grenade, tired of this game of cat and mouse without someone to balance it all out, just when he'd gotten used to human contact (as relative as it was) again.

When the psychic sensed his spiraling depression, for the first time instead of just a voice, Ivan gathered his strength and _teleported_ to Jet. Having an infant suddenly appear in his arms had been shocking. It hadn't stopped him from being mad at the other cyborg, but it had certainly tempered his anger; it was incredibly hard to get angry at someone when they wore such a defenseless form.

That first night, crouched in a dank cave with the concentrated heat of a baby cradled in his arms, was the first time Jet sang to Ivan. He'd given up singing when he'd joined his gang – they were all dance moves and trouble, not lilting voices and compassion – and had not sung to Ivan previously because it hadn't really _hit_ him that 001 was a baby. Ivan wasn't scared, but he was upset, and he couldn't help the tiny, distressed noises coming out from around his pacifier. So, Jet sung the lullabies his mother had sung to him. Even when Ivan had to return to the lab for fear of discovery (the scientists didn't check up too often on the _technically_ -a-child cyborg, but there was no way he could stay with Jet for more than a few hours without being found out), it became routine for Jet to sing them both to sleep.

Jet spent two days after that being furious with Ivan, but unwilling to relinquish his own, tenuous hold on their psychic link. Even if his physical hold on Ivan had to be temporary, he still had _this_ connection to another person. That wasn't to say Ivan couldn't have forced him to let go – the Russian was far stronger than Jet in that regard – but Ivan allowed it, his thoughts seeped in regret, apology, guilt, sorrow, and desperation. Slowly, their equilibrium returned.

Woven even more tightly than they'd been in the past, it became far easier for the two lone cyborgs to read one another, to anticipate each other's moods and decisions, and to learn one another's modification-quirks. When Ivan became particularly fond of the way ' _Ninna Nanna, Ninna Oh'_ sounded on Jet's tongue, the redhead found himself singing that one most. It helped that he was, as he could admit in the deepest privacy of his own mind, probably more comforted by the lullabies than Ivan.

Jet learned to dread Ivan's stretch of sleep, spent as alone and desperate mentally as he physically was every day; Ivan learned that the first thing to do upon waking was soothe Jet's frantic thoughts with mindless babble and gentle emotions, and then just let the man sing. (Ivan once tried to sing back; it didn't matter that his voice was completely mental, he still couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. After that, they left Jet to the songs. The attempt had resulted in a night of laughter, however, and that was good.)

It was these periods of loneliness and hopelessness that finally spurred Jet to begin making plans, in earnest, to escape. Between his unwilling return to the labs, when the scientists' dragged him in to upgrade, replace, and fiddle with his attachments, and Ivan's own exploration of the compound via the minds of those around him, they built an impressive map of the place. Jet built up his plans, and Ivan grew more and more confident in the idea of running off with Jet every day, if only to see more of the world he'd been denied. But until Jet could be made stable, it was a project best put on the backburner.

When a young woman – calling herself Françoise, and designated '003' – appeared on the grounds one night, as lost and terrified as Jet himself had been when he'd first appeared, Ivan had been able to lead Jet to her. He'd warmed her up to the idea of cyborg parts – though, with her super-sense enhancements, she already had an idea of what they'd done to her – and carefully introduced her to Ivan. But he made sure that he took 'scout' duty around either sunset or Ivan's waking hour (from normal sleep, not psychic exhaustion), so he had an excuse to be far enough away from her super-hearing to sing without being caught. There were some things that were just private, and Françoise might try and make a big deal out of it.

Just as Jet, Ivan, and Françoise were getting used to one another, another man was dropped in their midst.

Albert – '004' – was a terrible surprise to all four of them. He was the first _visceral_ example of what had been done to them, reworked head-to-toe in cyborg parts. He grimly accepted what had been done to him, and treated his fellow cyborgs with a coolness that was, under the circumstances, understandable. With his willingness to use what he'd been given, more-so than Jet or Françoise had first had when faced their enhancements, he was a force to be reckoned with. He stumbled on Jet singing once; he stood still and silent while Jet finished, eyes narrowed in contemplation, before he'd nodded slowly and turned on his heel. They never spoke of it. There were just some unspoken boundaries that men in pain silently respected and allowed in one another without comment.

By the time they'd come up with a comfortable dynamic, it had become clear to the scientists that the first wave of cyborgs were too far ahead of their time to function properly. The malfunctions and pain were nearly outweighing the benefits of every upgrade and new modification. They gave up on stabilizing 002, 003, or 004, and instead froze all four of them (not willing to deal with a psychic baby if they didn't have to), in wait for better technology. The dream of the four to escape Black Ghost's clutches was put on hold.

Days after they were reawakened, barely yet introduced to the other cyborgs that had been taken up in their absence (005, 006, 007, _and_ 008, and wasn't that a painful discovery), they caught word of a chance to escape. That chance rode on the combined backs of a conflicted scientist: Isaac Gilmore, and their newest cyborg member: 009.

It was because of this that the first time Jet laid physical eyes on Ivan after that first, turbulent meeting was _decades_ after they'd first touched, and long after they'd become familiar with one another's minds. Seeing the familiar blue mop of hair on the tiny form cradled in Françoise's arms was a jolt to Jet's system that he couldn't afford to react to; they were in the middle of finally, _finally_ escaping Black Ghost! And even when they'd gotten to the island, he couldn't afford to give into his emotions – it was still too dangerous to let their guard down.

But days later, safely ensconced in Doctor Kozumi's home, Jet allowed himself a chance to breathe. As he gazed down at the bassinet, waiting with the usual anticipation for the child to wake from his hibernation, Jet shivered with released tension. Ivan's tiny fingers were curling and uncurling, his mouth working unconsciously around his pacifier; these were all signs that he was returning to consciousness. Jet didn't know where the others were, and frankly he didn't care.

/ _Jet,_ / Ivan murmured, mental voice sleep-heavy but welcoming. Unbidden, a warmer smile than he'd entertained almost since before he'd ended up on the streets as a teen graced his face. With the ease of familiarity, he sent a wave of welcome and relief and joy down their mental link. Ivan responded by lifting a pair of tiny, chubby arms up into the air. With soft laughter, Jet complied, relishing the feeling of having his closest friend near him in the flesh once more.

Holding Ivan for the first time since the labs, his world narrowed down to one pair of bright blue eyes, nearly hidden behind a mop of blue hair. During his time on the streets, he'd never given thought to parenthood; it was a dog-eat-dog world, and frankly he had been _far_ more concerned with his immediate survival than the _distant, future_ possibility of one day fathering children. And during his recent time in Black Ghost's 'service', it had been so much more of the same, to an even greater degree… in spite of the lullaby moments. But here and now, something clicked in Jet's lizard-brain.

The sense of safety, combined with the knowledge that for the first time, they weren't possibly being monitored, crashed into him. The heavy, _warm_ weight in his arms. The musty, distinct smell that only infants possess. The faint feel of steady breaths and a fluttering heartbeat. The nearly-noiseless sounds produced as a tiny mouth nursed at a pacifier…. _Important,_ Jet's brain informed him. _Child,_ Jet's instincts crowed. _Mine/loved/family,_ Jet's heart sung. It was the same kind of feeling that came with being one of the oldest in his gang: he was responsible for another life, he was a surrogate big brother, he was the stopper that filled, awkwardly, that hollow place where a parent should-have, could-have been. And it was also _so much more_ , because they were _all_ a family, a war-bond forced together in hardship, a die-for-you brotherhood with common goals.

Without conscious decision, he'd started the rock-sway-bounce that all parents eventually perfect. It was much harder than it looked, but it seemed _wrong_ to hold Ivan without some kind of motion, now that they didn't have to be still-quiet-hiding from danger. His arms tightened marginally around the tiny and foreign, but still so familiar, body, and he curled over a little, neatly avoiding poking Ivan with his nose.

Sometimes (most of the time), Ivan preferred to communicate without words. The words he did use were pulled wholesale from the head of the person he was speaking to, for ease of understanding; the direct _communication_ he knew was still only the language of infancy, and it was what he was most comfortable with. So, when a wash of positive emotions poured down their link from Ivan to Jet, he had no trouble translating it. It was Ivan's version of approval; Ivan's way of convincing Jet that, yes, he was awake again; Ivan's agreeable stance on the matter of being cuddled and held and rocked; Ivan's reciprocation of emotions that Jet had yet to put into words.

He began to sing Italian lullabies, the words pouring from his mouth automatically, for once uncaring of who would hear or see. The melodies wrapped around the two of them, and Jet relaxed for the first time in years. And hours later, when he was done and his voice was hoarse, he settled in to a chair and spoke with Ivan using their psychic link until they both fell asleep.

It surprised no one that Jet became, after Françoise, the one to care for Ivan… mostly, he suspected, because they did not know him well enough to be surprised by the uncharacteristically parental side of the redhead. Jet cared for Ivan's body like the baby it was, and nurtured Ivan's mind like the growing, adult thing it had been made into – as he always had. Jet was scared of emotional attachments – they were the kind of thing that could get you into trouble on a 1940's New York street, as well as in a millennial war on a weapons manufacturer – but for Ivan, who had wormed his way into Jet's very short list of important people, Jet would make the effort.

He didn't bother getting too close to any of the others; they just didn't see things like he did. Doctor Gilmore was great, but he was a scientist; his first instinct would always be toward improvements. Françoise and Albert hated what they'd been made into, and would go back in a flash if they could. Geronimo, Pyunma, and Joe all took their abilities with a grain of salt, but otherwise seemed to not care one way or the other. And while Chang and Great Britain both embraced their enhancements with a slightly bitter kind of gusto, they made no secret of being willing to go back and change what had been done to them, if (selective) time-travel ever became a thing.

He and Ivan seemed to be the only ones who not only didn't have a problem with their enhancements (emotionally, anyway; physically, Jet's cyborg parts failed him almost more than the others put together… oh, the 'joys' of being literally of the first generation). True, in the beginning, they had both had taken issue with being unwillingly forced into their roles… but Ivan was too smart _not_ to make use of his abilities. Had he not been taken – had he not been ill to begin with – he would have been a genius. And Jet had always dreamed of flight. Black Ghost hadn't built him to _fight,_ they'd built him for aerial maneuvers: defense, travel, long-distance messaging, distraction, and more. He was light on his feet, and lighter in the air; he was a quick thinker, and that was put to good use when he had to make split-second decisions.

It also didn't hurt their bond that each was the first contact with the other upon initial testing and completion of the Cyborg-00 program. Where one went, inevitably the other would follow.

Jet and Ivan were closer than any of the others could have imagined. But even if the two _felt_ over the bond how much the other cared, neither had actually _said_ it, and they both came from places where the words admitted out loud meant just as much, and more, than the actions that proved them. That was why, Jet figured much later – as flames began to catch his clothes and sear his skin, with Joe tucked under his chin, both plummeting to Earth – even though Ivan was in his sleep cycle, it turned out the way it did.

Not being psychic, so unable to forge an open bond on his own, Jet thought loudly out into the world at large, / _001! I don_ _'t have much time; you deserve this at least once, though._ / He was quickly losing all sense of anything but his desire for Ivan to hear, and know. _/I love you, Ivan._ /

Whether it was the desperation, the impending doom, the imbedded knowledge that he was facing his own death, or _what,_ that one line cast into the darkness was enough to rouse a sleeping child. As Jet's own mind folded in on itself in self-defense, Ivan reached out to the burning, unconscious pair, and plucked them out of the sky. He went back to sleep shortly thereafter, and slept even longer because of the energy he'd used in the middle of a cycle.

When Ivan stirred a week and a half later, and Jet was still unconscious, he waited patiently. And when Jet woke on his own, three days after _that,_ Ivan settled himself (with the help of a little psychic push) onto Jet's chest. There was no one else in the room, because no one expected Jet to be up this soon, and that suited Ivan just fine. His tiny, uncoordinated hands reached out and trapped Jet's cheeks, forcing blue eyes fuzzy with pain medication and sleep to focus on him anyway. Uncharacteristically, tears were dripping down his rounded cheeks, and he snuffled loudly.

/ _You are not allowed to leave me like that, do you hear me, Jet Link? You are not allowed to admit to my face that you love me, and then_ _ **die.**_ _That_ _'s_ _ **not fair.**_ _I didn_ _'t get to say it. I thought you were gonna_ _ **die**_ _ **here,**_ _even though I_ _'d managed to get you to Doctor Gilmore!_ / Crying in earnest now, his tiny body trembling atop Jet's chest, Ivan let himself curl up, pudgy hands grasping at the sheets draped across Jet's chest.

Clumsily, Jet laid his hand to rest on Ivan's back. It was huge in comparison, nearly covering the whole of Ivan's torso, and he carefully rubbed his fingertips over that tiny spine in what he hoped was a soothing manner. At the same time, he mentally prodded at the place where Ivan had opened a connection, and filled it the way Ivan usually did: with all the emotions of the things that he couldn't find the words to express. Already, sleep was again tugging at him. With the last of his energy, he hummed a few familiar notes before slurring, "M' here, Iv'n. Not goin' 'nywhe're. Gonn' talk la'er. Love ya. A'w'ys love ya."

Ivan's tears, and his white-knuckled mental connection to the exhausted Italian-American, led him to as much of a cat-nap as his powers would allow, tension leaving his body. That was how Doctor Gilmore found the two of them: Ivan draped loosely over Jet's chest, drooling, the weight of Jet's entire arm ensuring he didn't slide off, and Jet asleep instead of unconscious, the lines of stress and pain smoothed out of his face for the first time in weeks.


End file.
